Black Hearted Love
by HB's Favourite
Summary: Constance is persuaded to submit to modern technology. And she soon realises she was better off without it.


_Meh. Why not. Inspired by_ _ **algyy**_ _'s amazing first-person narratives. Rating may change._

xxx

It had been the least desirable gift anyone had ever bestowed upon me.

I turned the box over in my hands several times before deciphering what on earth it contained. When realisation dawned I flung it from my grasp, as I might some serpent I'd mistaken for a piece of rope.

It landed with a shallow bounce on the mattress where it remained, incongruous in my modest bedchamber.

xxx

"It would help if I could get hold of you," Miss Drill had said in the staffroom a few days before. "I mean, what if there's an emergency?"

I'd felt my lips purse, my shoulders stiffen. Her eyes were on me, as they so often were when my back was turned.

"If you wish to renege on your offer, Miss Drill, then you are free to-"

"No, no! I want to help - it's just - I'll be here on my own, so I just thought…"

I shouldn't begrudge her this, really. It wasn't often I was absent from the school during half term, but this year I'd arranged a speaking engagement in Prague and what with the girls being occupied on various trips the place would be deserted, apart from the odd fleeting visit from Mr Blossom to water the pumpkins.

I admit I had been surprised when Miss Drill volunteered her services. I'd wondered if this was an indication that she hadn't made plans with that Canadian fellow of hers, had opened my mouth and taken the very breath that would voice the question; but thought better of it. Naturally, the Academy should come first to any member of staff, and the distractions of a personal life hindered complete devotion to the school. Far be it from me to betray the school's spirit of integrity by reminding her of what she might be missing. Perhaps Miss Drill would prove herself a worthy incumbent, and I would be free to attend more witchcraft symposiums in the future…

xxx

Presently, the problem of The Thing remained.

I didn't know where to start with it.

The box which housed it was smaller than I would have imagined, had I imagined it at all (which I hadn't) and slid apart quite satisfactorily, with a little encouragement. Clearly whomever designed the packaging for these devices was a person after my own organised heart. I plucked it from it's plastic mould and flinched in distaste at my own puzzled, double-chinned reflection in its dark glass. Where on earth were the buttons? How was one supposed to make a telephone call on it?

I huffed and tossed it onto the bed again.

xxx

It was Mr Blossom who had eventually "charged it up".

"It just goes in here lov-... Miss," He swallowed and gave me that look people so often did, as though awaiting some terrible fate.

I glared at him, biting back my usual reprimand in light of his assistance. He plugged it into the toaster's socket in the kitchen and a garish green image of a battery flashed up on the screen. He nodded, satisfied.

"Do not tell _any_ one about this, Mr Blossom," I warned, perhaps sounding a little more frantic than I'd intended. "On pain of _death_ , are we clear?"

He'd already begun mounting the staircase, and I heard the smile in his voice as he replied over the hunch of his shoulder, "Right you are, Miss."

I glared at The Thing, at its repose on the kitchen sideboard, and it seemed to glare back.

xxx

As it turned out, it had all been a monumental waste of time and, no doubt, money. For the entirety of the half term conference The Thing had remained dormant on the dressing table of my hotel room (I refused to have it anywhere near the bedside cabinet - who knows how these things interfere with one's magic). Miss Drill had corresponded with me on a single occasion to say that a pigeon had managed to get stuck in the eaves of the west tower, and could I do some long-distance magic in order to free it, and I had pointed out that if it had got in it would most likely find its way out again and that no, Miss Drill, witches did not provide on-tap long-distance remedies to hapless avians, from which point I had banished The Thing to the bottom of my suitcase.

xxx

It had been a cold, pre-Christmas evening a few weeks later. I was engaged in researching the magical properties of a lesser known species of philodendron when a muffled buzz somewhere in the vicinity of my bureau shattered my peace.

I glanced around beneath the desk in frenzied bafflement, as though I'd caught a rat darting into the shadows. I rolled out drawers and slammed them shut again, shooting a look at my poor Morgana, as if _she_ could be responsible, curled on the spare pillow before her night's hunting.

Then, I slid open the shallow shelf-drawer which was uppermost in the bureau and there it was - The Thing - aglow with a strip of wording across the middle of it. Frankly I was surprised it still showed signs of life at all, so long had it been idle within my desk since my return from Prague, and with a mutter of irritation I snatched it from the drawer and squinted at the glaring screen.

 _I want to kiss you_.

My breath caught in my throat, and my heart rudely alerted me to its presence.

After much undignified fumbling, the message appeared in its full glory with the trivial dialogue we had exchanged about the pigeon above it, followed by today's date and the goading, weighty, _I want to kiss you._

I felt a little faint and The Thing was suddenly heavy in my fingers, bulky and menacing and for a second I felt… blindsided by it; intimidated, out of my depth in this new world to which I had been exposed against my will, this can of worms that had been opened to infiltrate my solitude. I had heard people bemoaning the curse of modern technology, blaming smartphones for the increased unsociability of the young, for poor sleep and repetitive strain injury. Their complaints had gone over my head until today; and yet here I was, Miss Constance Hardbroom, alone in my bedchamber thumbing a screen, swiping this way and that and damning myself for my loss of composure and my ineptitude at remembering how on earth The Damned Thing worked.

It said "online" beneath Imogen's name. I happened to know - from overhearing the girls' conversations about their own contraband devices - that it meant she was probably seeing the very thing I was, and that she knew I was looking too.

Or that she was now talking to someone else…

An array of letters loitered at the bottom of the screen, awaiting my reply.

I drew an unsteady breath and glanced at the time. Quarter to ten. Lights out was long since over, and seeing as it was a Friday evening she and Miss Bat were probably ten sheets to the wind in the kitchens, polishing off Mrs Tapioca's best prosecco.

My expression darkened. It was the most obvious explanation. Oh, the perils of the misfired message!

 _You have addressed the wrong recipient, Miss Drill. Goodnight._

I watched as two little ticks appeared beside my message and tossed The Thing back into the draw, which I slammed as if to contain some wild animal and endeavoured to realign my thoughts in the direction of academia.

I spent the rest of the evening in a state of distraction. From somewhere, a white hot anger had risen within me, and I'd become restless.

Damn her. Damn her and her nonsensical, inebriated idiocy.

I think I half anticipated the sound of soft buzzing again; but it didn't come.


End file.
